


Restart

by eggshits



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depression, M/M, Sadstuck, daves stuck in the alpha universe, haha i can't answer that question, my feelings about life are the things that push me to write shit like this, what am i doing you ask?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:19:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3740569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggshits/pseuds/eggshits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story revolving about the day of Dave Strider, the timekeeper who repeats the same process. </p><p>Let us restart. </p><p>And see if the day can be revised, once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "How to Never Stop Being Sad" by: Dandelion Hands

You sit in the empty shop and swirl around your coffee with one of the slim, wooden sticks the place provides. The white creamer blends with the dark coffee, creating a consistent swirl and blend of tan hues. You sip at the styrofoam cup and swallow down the horrid taste of coffee, allowing it to ease down your throat. You feel the warmth spread through your stomach and you clasp your hands around the body of the cup to feel a bit more like you’re there, like you’re real. 

Outside it’s raining and the weather has effectively turned much colder. Dark grey clouds swarmed the sky and you like to think that this weather is what makes life a happier place. How ironic. 

You listen to the music emanating from the bulky, red headphones clamped around your ears. The barely-there bass line, fading in and out as the melody is barely even sung, merely spoken in a way. You listen. And you let yourself smile. 

The coffee shop is only being occupied by you and you allow yourself to lose interest in the environment around you. You give an attempt at remembering what you were here for, why you walked the ten blocks it took to get here. And you repeat to yourself that you must have been meeting up with someone. Someone important. You stare at the inside of your cup that’s soon becoming stained with the dark presence of coffee and you try to remind yourself of the boy who was coming here. 

You delve into the world of remembering the same protruding teeth and the disheveled hair, and recall his face. His voice and laughter. 

His eyes. 

You remember and envision the bright, shockingly sapphire eyes that reminded you of blue, turbulent skies blocking out the void of space. The crashing waves against a dark, jagged shore, breaking the Earth and eroding slowly at its minerals. 

The laughter. 

The sound of happiness magnified a thousand times in your ears, nearly screaming and screeching like nails scraping down a chalkboard. The presence of giddy misunderstanding with nervous chuckles and rolled eyes. His voice was the one thing that kept you ashore like a life preserver with gaping, dreaded tears in all the sides. His smile was the picture to create a better day, the one action in your life that kept the constant reminders of your loneliness at bay. 

His everything was the shield against the impending, ruthless self-hatred biting and gnawing your skin, pulling and ripping and shredding and forcing you to stumble back millions of steps from what you thought was recovery. 

And you remember him. 

With every excruciating detail, you remind yourself that he was real and tangible at one point. 

This thought was keeping you together. This memory of him. 

Perfectly manicured nails tap on your table and the beautifully-sculpted woman tells you that the shop is closed. 

“It’s getting quite late; you should go home, sir.” 

You give a brief, quick nod and get out of your seat, pouring your coffee out on the floor and rushing out the door with the sound of the small bell ringing, perched up on the top of the door frame. 

And so you leave without another glance at the beautiful woman or the coffee spilled on the floor. 

And so you run back to your apartment, to what should be your home, but what truly isn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

When you unlock the door to your apartment, you’re greeted by the familiar sight of discarded take out boxes and sprawled wires stretching over the carpeted floor. As you’re walking past the living room and allowing yourself to enter the familiarity of your bedroom, you pass old photos with frayed edges carelessly taped to the walls to give a sense of home. To give you a sense of belonging in a place that is only occupied by you. 

Sitting down on your bed, you stare at the beige, discolored-in-some-places wall and pick at the scratchy fabric you’re seated on. And you think. 

Your therapist believes that you think too much, and you somewhat agree. You used to put your thoughts into words, spouting out every thought that came across your mind, anything that you ever wanted to know or already knew. People called it rambling or rapping or poetry in disguise but you called it thinking out loud and that’s all it truly was.

And you think about if your life was a movie. A black-and-white film with dirtied edges and cracks in the lens and badly documented memories. Muffled, almost mute, sounds in the background that sound vaguely like music but it isn’t quite there.

And you think. 

You think about how slowly your movie has evolved from colorful fields and dandelions to old, cut-down trunks of burnt trees in the middle of deserts. 

You think about how you’ve become the antagonist and the protagonist in your own movie documenting your life. How you’re trying, you’re really fucking trying, to get somewhere, to get to a place with peace and happiness and fulfilled wishes and warmth that comes from anywhere except the terrible coffee you drink daily. But you’re the antagonist. And you’re the one getting in the way of your goals. 

The capsules in the plastic boxes labelled with different days of the week keep away the knives and the scars and the bruises. They numb down the world around you from simple primary colors to faded, cracked shades of red. Everything seems distorted and it’s tiring for you to continue it all like this. But you remember that someone out there is waiting for you. And someone out there is at the coffee shop, drinking terrible coffee with blended tan hues. And someone out there is mixing in the two tablespoons of creamer and the three teaspoons of sugar because he likes it sickeningly sweet. And someone out there is setting up that one last prank, the bucket over your door before he’s gone. 

You look over at the plastic, rectangular, cerulean-blue box that has the little pills. The little capsules that are described to you as small, red-and-yellow messengers for happy thoughts. You just have to swallow four a day and soon you’ll be okay. That’s what you’ve repeated to yourself for the past two years. 

You’ve already taken the recommended dosage today, and you urge the thoughts of how many it would take to fall to the ground away. You push them out because the people said that you couldn’t do that anymore. The scars on your arms are a reminder of why you shouldn’t. That, and the someone who is waiting for you at the coffee shop. He wouldn’t want you to go, and you believe that with all your heart. 

You rip your eyes away from the box of pills and look around. 

Your hands are pale. As pale as the white snow and white walls of the hospital you were in. They tremble at four in the morning with the held-in thoughts and they shake with fright and sadness on the bad nights. There’s no outlet for you and you understand why; you can’t cry and you can’t speak with the people who used to matter. 

They’re all old memories who no longer prolong existence in your current life. 

It’s becoming very difficult for you to continue this cycle. It’s a laborious attempt at making your life more than it used to be. But they all exist. They’re all still here--the friends. The boy especially. You remember him vividly as if he had just walked out the door mere minutes ago, as if the treacherous day had never oc

He is still here, and you know that. He is still a part of your life. And he still takes his dark coffee with the two tablespoons of creamer and three teaspoons of sugar because he likes his coffee sickeningly sugary and caffeinated. He’s here with his ruffled hair and deafening laugh with the rolled eyes and the smile that exudes happiness.

You know he is here. You just have to make it so that he is here with you.


End file.
